


Don’t Let the Moonlight Leave Us

by Helholden



Series: Ghosts on Your Pillow, Blame on My Hands [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banshee Lydia Martin, Complicated Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Manipulation, Mind Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has beautiful muscles. It’s a shame she wants to cut through them to tear out his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don’t Let the Moonlight Leave Us

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Notes:** I wrote another one, and this time there's some plot. Not overwhelming, but it's there to shed some light on Lydia's motivation. I'm sinking my teeth into the season four plot with the hit list and the Benefactor, and I do have a third piece in mind to follow this one. That may or may not be the last one in this series, though. We'll see.

* * *

 

 

He’s above her, and her hands are above her head. He isn’t holding them against her will; their fingers are intertwined, and his lips are surprisingly soft and warm upon her own. She had imagined they would feel cold, that his skin would feel like stone if his heart is made of the same, but he doesn’t feel that way at all. She kisses him back, curls her leg against his side, rucking her dress up higher. Peter releases one of her hands to slide it down her body, pushing her dress up to her stomach, and then he’s leaving her, but he’s not.

 

She stares up at the ceiling, seeing it but not seeing. Her breath comes out uneven with each exhale, and her body arches as her toes curl with every sensation she feels running like little rivulets through her veins. He is good to her, and when he returns to her lips, his mouth tastes of her. She rakes fingers through his hair, and he presses his forehead to hers. There is something in the gesture that causes her stomach to twist uncomfortably; he is too good at this. Too good at playing at what people want.

 

He rolls them onto their sides, so he is no longer above her, and then he tends to the sensitive shell of her ear with his fingers. A tingle passes through her, and his hand is running up her leg again. She hooks it over his hip, and their lips graze almost tenderly. Lydia knows this began half a game, half of her desire, but if she is not careful, he will teach her exactly what she is afraid of.

 

That he has control of her, not her over him.

 

He does as she asks, and when he rides to his peak, he pulls out again. She is not thinking right; she ought to be worried about this, having sex without protection, but she is reckless in her assumptions. She was immune to his bite, and now her mind dismisses other things he may pass to her.

 

It’s an extra added step of danger, and she embraces it rather than running.

 

It’s also different this time, but not unpleasant. He kisses her cheek with a ghost of his lips, and then he kisses the other. She reaches for his hand, taking it gently by the wrist and holding it near her face. With her eyes closed, she tugs his hand to her cheek, nestling it below and caressing her soft skin against his knuckles. It’s a calculated move, not borne out of love.

 

“Oh, Lydia,” he says, almost sounding forlorn, but she hears the lack of emotion. The lack of genuine feeling behind the words. “Had I known.”

 

He’s teasing her. She allows it because it isn’t real, which is the whole point. He did as she asked, playing up the tenderness, the kindness, and the sweetness. She relives the memory in her head for a brief moment. Her body still pulses with the aftershocks of pleasant lovemaking.

 

“I sleep better alone,” she says, pulling away from him.

 

Despite his calm demeanor, the teasing quality of his voice, Lydia sees the shock register in Peter’s eyes as she draws away. She rolls onto her side, turning her back to him before he can see her own eyes shine brightly with the knowledge of what she has received. She pulls down her dress and snuggles against the pillow as she closes her eyes, smiling in a way that’s almost a smirk.

 

Peter is still on the bed. Eventually, he rolls over, too.

 

It’s cold.

 

Lydia doesn’t fall asleep. Contrary to their encounter, she didn’t remember how she ended up in his loft or why until shortly after confronting the man himself. Before that, the last thing she remembered before waking up in Peter Hale’s loft had been the resounding echo of a thousand endless screeching voices. They had begun in a quiet hum until they rose steadily into a roaring cacophony of sound. Lydia remembered lifting her hands to her ears to try and stop it, screaming back into the void without an answer.

 

The next thing she remembered was silence, perfect silence, shushing the sound into peace. She opened her eyes a moment later, and then she was under the dark shade of his familiar loft. The ceiling hung high above her, pipes trailing across it in the blackness. Her heart had risen at the sight, feeling the bed beneath her and fearing also what that might have meant. She had told herself not to panic, taking deep breaths to calm herself, and she rolled her head to the side to look around.

 

When she spotted him by the window, Lydia exhaled slowly. He was gazing into the night in contemplative silence. For once, he even looked gentle.

 

Lydia had put two and two together quickly. She was in one piece, fully clothed, and no scratch marks, no bites. A cup of dark liquid that smelled suspiciously like hot chocolate, cold from being left out too long, sat beside the bed. She was resting on the bed, and he was keeping his distance.

 

It had hit her then with sudden, violent clarity why she was there.

 

She knew why the final key was Derek.

 

It was tied to Peter Hale.

 

Lydia feels her heart pick up a quick beat as she recalls the recent memory in his presence. He has been biding his time around them, playing with them, lying to them. Lydia believed for a time that he had really changed, but she realizes with this new information that he has always been the same. Playing subtler moves on a chessboard the size of Beacon Hills.

 

Appearances, however, are everything.

 

Peter means for something else to happen, something bigger. There is still more to come, and she, Lydia, means to be the unsuspecting chess piece that delivers the final checkmate and topples the whole board.

 

She has brains and beauty, but brains haven’t worked on Peter so far.

 

It’s not unpleasant for her. It certainly isn’t something that she didn’t want to do. There is a part of her that has been tied to him for a long time now, feeling him in her head when he isn’t even there anymore. But a mark of him will always exist inside of her, and it won’t ever fully go away. And he is handsome, and his skin is hot like fire against her own, and to be fair, she’s needed this.

 

She’s needed to let everything go and grab hold tight to something new, foreign, and dangerous and lose herself in it.

 

If she loses herself completely, she thinks she will find herself when she emerges from the river on the other side of the bank, the essence of her confusion falling away with the droplets of water from her fingertips and hair. She will come out cleaner, knowing who she is.

 

It is a double-edged sword. She knows giving in to Peter will give her access and opportunity to betray him, but she wants both.

 

She wars with it.

 

At least this way, he will believe it.

 

When she turns her head to look over her shoulder, Peter looks asleep. His hand is sprawled on the bed between them as if reaching out for her in his sleep, palm up and open. She turns away and slips from the bed, but as her feet touch on the cold floor, Peter’s hand shoots out and takes her wrist.

 

Lydia freezes, her heart leaping into her throat and nearly choking her. It almost gives her away, but Peter is thankfully too groggy to notice.

 

“Where are you going?” he asks in his sleep riddled voice, his hand loosening on her wrist as he rolls over on the bed to get closer to her.

 

Lydia feels annoyed by it. It’s such a possessive question.

 

She glances halfway over her shoulder. “To shower,” she says coyly, a lie. Lydia wanted to search his apartment while he was asleep. “I feel dirty,” she deadpans, “and I smell like a wet dog.”

 

“ _Mmm_ ,” Peter hums back, rising up behind her. His hands are on her shoulders, running down her arms. He nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck. “I like my women dirty.” Peter pauses, lifting his fingers from her arms but not his palms. “The wet dog part, well, I can overlook that.” He dips in closer to her neck again, whispering against her skin. “Werewolf and all . . . ”

 

He is insatiable.

 

Instead of probing his apartment for clues, Lydia finds herself spread out across the bathroom counter on her back, slipping against the hard surface and trying to grab a hold of something for leverage as he pounds into her. Her feet are braced against the edge of the counter, but it isn’t helping much. If it isn’t for his hands clutching her hips and holding her firmly in place, she realizes her head would be hitting the mirror or the faucet.

 

His hands wander from her hip to her breast, squeezing gently. Peter lowers his body over hers, sliding one of his arms underneath her and lifting her an inch or two from the counter. He buries his face against her chest, and his mouth finds a nipple, lips and teeth catching it. Lydia wonders idly if he will ever stop fucking her tonight; he must have wanted this just as badly as her. She opens her thighs further; he growls against her throat. When he got there, she isn’t sure; a broken moan escapes her lips as he thrusts harder, and as he sinks deeper, hitting a spot right _there_ , she cries out. “Oh, oh— _oh_ —god—”

 

She’s got a blasphemous tongue.

 

Everything is still and quiet. Lydia gazes up at the golden ceiling, which looks hazy like half of it’s a dream and half is just steam rising from hot water that isn’t running. He draws his hand over her face, fingers lightly grazing the planes and angles from her forehead to her chin. When she blinks her eyes again and looks up, Peter’s face is hovering above her.

 

He doesn’t kiss her. She doesn’t kiss him.

 

She dislodges her feet from the counter, uses one of them to push him away.

 

“Get out,” she says, nearly breathless. “I have to shower.”

 

His tongue grazes his upper lip. He isn’t mad at her dismissal, but he’s intrigued. He pulls up his boxers, his chest shirtless. He has beautiful muscles. It’s a shame she wants to cut through them to tear out his heart.

 

He leaves the bathroom, and she showers in peace. When she emerges, she’s only wearing a towel around her body. She rinsed her clothes under the hot spray of water, using soap on them to clean them, too. She rung them out and hung them on the shower door to dry. She isn’t sure if there is a washer or dryer here, so she does it her way and refuses to ask.

 

When his eyes settle on her again, she sees he has pulled on a clean white t-shirt.

 

His gaze lingers longer than necessary, lowering from her face to her legs. Lydia steps into the room casually, drying her hair on a smaller hand towel. She sits on the couch and looks over at him. He is preparing something to eat. Lydia tries to think of a reason to get him out of the loft while leaving her here alone.

 

“Do you have any cherries?” she asks, saying the first thing that comes to mind.

 

Peter tilts his head to the side. “Cherries?” he deadpans.

 

“Yes,” she repeats. “Cherries. I want some.”

 

His eyes break away from her gaze, and he opens his mouth but he doesn’t speak immediately. “No,” he finally says with a hint of cheek. “No cherries.”

 

Lydia curls her legs up on the couch. She catches a piece of damp hair between her thumb and forefinger, twirling it. She is smirking. “Will you get me some?”

 

He pauses again, eying her from across the counter. He looks like he is debating it, but more likely leaning towards no. _This isn’t an escort service_ , she can hear him say. In her mind’s eye he places both hands firmly on the counter as he says it. In reality, though, the situation goes much different.

 

Peter crosses the distance to stand in front of her. “And what do I get in return?” he asks, slowly reaching out with his hand. His fingers graze the side of her face, but he doesn’t cup it.

 

She recalls his words in her head. _A deal is deal, even with me_. He is nothing if he is not give and take in equal measure, always seeking an outcome to benefit him as well.

 

Lydia tilts her chin down further, continuing to smirk. “The pleasure of my company, of course,” she says in her flirtiest voice. She wonders if—no, hopes with all her might—that he doesn’t see the cracks in the façade.

 

He drops his hand, turning away from her as well. “You come back at the end of the week,” he tells her. Lydia feels her core seize up and an anger blossom inside of her, hot and thrumming. It’s a demand, not a suggestion. Peter turns around to look at her, a twinkle in his eyes. “After dark. Alone. In that yellow sunflower dress of yours.”

 

She draws in a slow, calculated breath. Her chest feels tight. He remembers her dresses. Jackson never remembered her dresses. He only sought to get her out of them. He couldn’t be bothered with colors and patterns. Peter knows them. How long has he been watching her? How long has he been feeding these desires?

 

Lydia releases the lock of damp hair from her fingers. “Anything else?” she asks, keeping it coy.

 

Peter smirks at her as he grabs a long sleeve shirt to pull over the one he is already wearing. He scoops up a pair of pants to go with them, slides his feet into a pair of shoes. Runs a hand through his short hair, smoothing out the ruffled locks at the top that her hands have made of it. Before she knows it, he’s back in front of her, tilted forward, his face a few inches from hers.

 

She stares at his eyes up close, pale blue, cold as moonlight.

 

Peter leans in close to the side of her face, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. “No panties,” he whispers before pulling away from her, and he leaves her all alone in the loft.

 

Lydia feels cold, and she goes back into the bathroom to check on her clothes. They are still damp, but she finds a dryer hidden in the corner of the main part of the loft and throws them in. While waiting on them to dry, she investigates his desk and the stacks of papers on it and in it. She opens the laptop, but finds it is password protected. Lydia frowns, knowing she can crack the code given time, but there isn’t much time if Peter cheats and uses his werewolf speed to get there and back quickly.

 

She spends her time on the papers instead. When she finds nothing, she begins to investigate the drawers themselves for hidden compartments.

 

The dryer buzzes. Her clothes are done.

 

Lydia hurries to find something, anything, and then a _click_ gives way in the last drawer on the left. Quickly, she moves to open it.

 

The latch clicks on the front door, and Lydia freezes. She has less than two point five seconds to press the clasped hood back onto the hidden compartment before getting away from the desk.

 

When he opens the door, she’s nowhere near it.

 

Lydia is in her bra and underwear when he finds her, turning her dress right side out as it covers her arms. She senses him a few feet away, getting a good look at her backside without announcing his presence. She considers turning around to say something, but then makes a judgment against it. She can’t stay here all night or fuck all night. Lydia slips the dress over her shoulders, feeling it fall over her body to her hips. As she straightens it out, he comes up behind her.

 

Fixing up the buttons near her throat, Peter leans in close to her hair as he hovers behind her back. He breathes in, nose nuzzling her hair, and Lydia wonders just what it is that he likes about her scent so much.

 

Surprisingly, he doesn’t touch her. Deciding he may be getting better at personal boundaries, unless that is a wishful thought, Lydia makes a conscious decision to lean into him to show she welcomes it. He slips his arms around her waist, but his hold is gentle and he doesn’t make a move to kiss her again.

 

“You should get home,” Peter tells her, and there is a strange quality to his voice. She can’t pin it down. “Before your friends start thinking something has happened to you.” He tightens his arms slightly. “It would be hard,” he admits, his head tilting against hers, “trying to explain why you were here, after all.”

 

Oddly, he’s right. Lydia knows her phone isn’t with her. If they tried texting her tonight—

 

She lays her hands on his arms, tilts her head back. It touches his shoulder. “It’s late,” she says. “Will you walk me home?”

 

There is something equally impressive, terrifying, and reassuring about a known murderer walking her home, but considering she just spent the last few hours fucking him, she imagines she has done far worse already.

 

Lydia takes a handful of the cherries with her when she leaves. Peter locks the loft behind them, and it’s silent on the way down. Once they are on the sidewalk, she looks down at his arm. They are walking side by side, and he is—surprisingly—quiet for once. Usually, Peter loves to talk. He loves the sound of his own voice, after all. Lydia bites into another fresh cherry until they are all gone. Her fingertips are stained red. Her lips must be as well.

 

She licks them, glancing over at him. His silence is beginning to bother her.

 

Reaching out to him, Lydia links their arms together by sliding her hand through the crook of his elbow. Peter doesn’t stop walking, but he does look down.

 

Maybe she overestimated herself. Maybe she came off too coy. Maybe she played up the persona more than she needed to, and he got a whiff of it. Her heart starts to pound in her ribcage, and she places her other hand on his forearm and grips tight onto his jacket.

 

Peter looks down at that, too.

 

“Scared, Lydia?” he asks, and she’s actually afraid to answer him this time. She feels her jaw clamp up, and she bites her lips together to keep them still. “Don’t worry,” Peter adds, and he leans in close to her ear just like before. “You’re safe as long as I’m around.”

 

The irony is not lost on her. She lets out a shaky breath and a wary smile without looking at him.

 

“Right,” Lydia says, and she tries to smile harder. Her eyes dart around their surroundings. “I don’t go out walking much at night.”

 

“You did earlier,” he reminds her in a sly voice.

 

“I couldn’t remember it,” Lydia admits. “I still don’t. I don’t know why I—”

 

Peter stops them. He steps in front of her.

 

“Is it . . . ” He furrows his brow, but it feels like it’s more for show. “ . . . Your powers?”

 

She debates if she should tell him, but Peter could read her heartbeat before, and she is more careful this time.

 

“I think so.”

 

Peter looks down with his eyes, and then he turns away from Lydia. They start walking again, and she’s even more nervous than before. If he heard her at the desk, or if he saw her moving away from it—

 

“I know a little about banshees,” he says slowly, as if he’s offering up reluctant advice. “Perhaps I can . . . bestow some knowledge to you.”

 

Lydia is surprised. “I didn’t know you knew _anything_ about banshees . . . ”

 

“A little,” he repeats. “I’m not an encyclopedia, so let’s get that straight.”

 

His cheek is welcome. It helps Lydia to relax again. She considers her next response carefully.

 

“I need help,” she says softly into the night air. For a moment, she sees her breath before her like a grey fog that quickly dissipates.

 

“I can help you,” Peter answers. His voice is low, and Lydia wonders what help from Peter Hale will look like this time. She’s seen two different versions of it. He is unpredictable, even though she knows he is supposed to be the bad guy. He has two faces, and sometimes they meld together and it becomes hard to tell where the man meets the mask.

 

She remembers her own words. _I don’t want to be with the bad guy_.

 

She takes a deep breath.

 

It isn’t long before they’re standing in front of her house.

 

Lydia slips her arm out of his to reach for the doorknob before pausing halfway. She remembers the door is locked at night, and she doesn’t have any keys. There is a spare set in a fake rock by the bushes, but she doesn’t want to bend over and grab it with Peter standing right there.

 

Werewolves don’t need permission to enter a house, and briefly, Lydia wishes he was a vampire.

 

She turns around to face him instead, offering him a weary smile.

 

Peter tilts his head. “Well,” he says, “goodnight.”

 

There is something anti-climatic about it. He’s back to being casual with her as if he can’t be moved any further. Lydia doesn’t know what she was expecting until a sly smile crosses his face and he bows in front of her without breaking eye contact.

 

“ . . . Lydia Martin,” he adds, and a chill runs up her spine.

 

 _There he is_ , she thinks, smiling. She feels more confident when Peter is what she expects and not something completely out of left field. He backs away from her, eyes still watching, until he turns around and disappears down the street.

 

He doesn’t wait to see if she can get inside or not.

 

Lydia looks around and, deciding against the front door, walks her way around the house to the back door. The fence is easy to unlatch. The pool glimmers in the moonlight, little waves rippling, and she tries the backdoor. It is locked. She dips down and grabs a fake rock. One for each door. She closes it and puts it back in place, using the key on the door to get inside.

 

She looks left and right. The house is quiet. Lydia is careful about not making any noise as she enters. She takes it one step at a time up the stairs and reaches her bedroom, shutting the door and shedding her clothes for a fresh nightgown to slip over her head. When she turns to her window, it’s wide open. Frowning, she walks over to it and grabs the latches to close it again.

 

She freezes, seeing scuff marks against the roof outside her window. The leaves are parted in a pattern of someone sliding their way down, and her shoes . . .

 

Lydia lets go of the window to inspect her sneakers.

 

The rubber is scraped. Her finger traces a delicate line against it as her lips part. Her breath hitches in her throat.

 

Dropping her sneaker, she hurries back to the window.

 

Lydia sees a pair of eyes glowing like blue flame across the street. She freezes in place, and he lowers his head, almost in a gesture of a nod, before vanishing into the shadows.

 

She pulls back from her window. Grabbing the latches again, she lowers it this time.

 

She sits on the edge of her bed and lets out a deep breath.

 

She is playing with fire. Lydia closes her eyes and clutches the bed sheets in her hands. She can’t trust him, not anymore than he should trust her, but all she can remember is the hot lips pressed against hers, the heat of his breath on her neck, and the way he simultaneously showed her tenderness along with an insatiable desire to possess her wholly and fully.

 

Lydia opens her eyes.

 

She knows what he wants.

 

As she goes to lie down and close her eyes for the night, she sinks into the cool softness of her pillow and ignores the ache in her back. He may have gotten what he wanted, but she also got something she wanted as well.

 

She can manipulate him just as good as he had manipulated her.

 

Peter Hale is hers, and she will have him wrapped tight around her little finger before all of this is through.

 

 


End file.
